


Only Forever, My Love

by TawnyOwl95



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe Labyrinth, Although goes a bit Daughter of Smoke and Bone, Big ball of wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff, Child Loss, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fairy Queen Aziraphale, Half way through, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Memory Loss, Newton Pulsifer is a hero, Please don't feed the dust bunnies, Shapeshifting, Very stressed Crowley, a bit of blood and battlefields, monster mums, stolen children, sylphs and goblins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27458185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95
Summary: Crowley had always felt lost in her own life. Like she should be somewhere else, someone else, something else.Now she has thirteen hours (twelve hours fifty-nine, fifty-eight… ) to get to the centre of a labyrinth masquerading as a bookshop and win her stolen son back from the Queen of the Easterngate.Problem is Crowley is not a romantically available ingénue, she's old and angry. She's also starting to find the strange world she's tumbled into oddly familiar…
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 40
Collections: Trick-Or-Treat!





	1. Say the Magic Word

**Author's Note:**

> More big, big thanks to  
> [Jamgrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamgrl/pseuds/jamgrl/works?fandom_id=27251507) for betaing. 
> 
> Spooky rating Level 1 for the Trickety-Boo event. 
> 
> "Trouble is just like love, after all; it comes in unannounced and takes over before you've had a chance to reconsider, or even to think.”  
> ― Alice Hoffman, Practical Magic

Crowley first saw the bookshop when it was raining. A worn, rambling building sinking slowly into a corner plot in Soho. All dried-blood red paint and fogged old glass. She rubbed at the ache in her hip, then clenched her teeth against the pain and darted inside. The door was heavy, and there was a brief moment of resistance before it swung inwards under Crowley’s hands. The bell dinged as Crowley stepped out of the soggy bustle of the London streets and into the hush of the book lined walls. It was going to be a challenge trying not to drip on the antique looking rugs. Near impossible considering Crowley's jacket was soaked from being held over her head, and her tights had been sprayed by the 666 bus as it zoomed past as she ran towards the bus stop. 

It was now 6.30, which meant Crowley was already late picking Warlock up from the babysitter and she couldn’t afford to pay them overtime. Not right now.

“Shitshitshit.” Crowley’s cold, damp fingers slid over her phone screen. Her tinted-lenses were steaming up in the warmth of the whirring stand heaters. She could have done without this today. She’d tried working at flower shops, tattooists and coffee shops, but it was always the same. Couldn’t keep her opinions shut down, couldn’t stop with the questions and the anger at the stupidity of the answers. “Shitshitshit!”

“May I help you?” The voice didn’t sound like it wanted to help. It sounded like it would quite happily shove Crowley back out in the rain and lock the door after her. The toes of a pair of sensible, beige pumps joined Crowley’s matt black heels on the rug.

Crowley pushed her wet fringe out of her eyes, all the better to sneer at the shoe’s owner. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

The woman lifted her pale eyebrows and pursed her rose-blush lips. “If you say so.”

Crowley turned back to her phone. “I do.” She tapped out an apology to the babysitter while the soft creak of floorboards indicated the women’s withdrawal. Crowley peered at the torrent of rain beating against the glass. She wouldn’t be able to get a cab now, even if she could afford one. The next bus would be twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of lurking in this stuffy, slightly odd smelling shop. It was more than just an aroma of dust and paper. Something mildly unpleasant crept into her nose. An edge of mould and sulphur, and something sweet. Too sweet.

“Here you are.”

A cup of cocoa was pushed into Crowley’s hands. The cup was white and the handle was twin angel wings.

“As you appear to be staying,” the woman with the beige shoes said.

Crowley looked up from the cocoa to the woman’s oddly coloured eyes. Not as odd as Crowley’s, not by miles, but they were neither green nor brown nor blue, but somehow all three depending on how the dim light caught them. Must be the A. Z Fell whose name was over the shop doorway in gold. Only someone who owned this chaotic, labyrinthine space would wear hideous shoes like that. 

The shop owner held out a towel with her other soft, capable looking hand. “If you wouldn’t mind,” she said. “These rugs are quite old and I’d rather not test how they stand up to water damage.”

Crowley took the towel. The shop owner smiled as though she’d tasted something unpleasant and walked away. Her sensible shoes barely made a sound on the soft rugs. Her hemline swished, brushing against her calves. She was all beige clad curves, style neat, but looking like it had ransacked half a dozen historical periods. Her blonde hair was piled high on the crown of her head in a lopsided bun that bristled with pencils. Disobedient tendrils escaped down the back of her neck and over her ears. She had been pleasant enough, but there was something of the iceberg about her. Crowley knew she was only seeing a fraction of what was on the surface.

Crowley’s phone rang. She answered it and tried her best to absorb the maelstrom of guilt and fear while the babysitter, very politely, told her not to worry and how much not worrying would cost her per half hour until Warlock could be collected. Crowley closed her eyes. She didn’t want to be a mum any more, didn’t want to be an adult. She just wanted to kick off her shoes and slither away somewhere warm and dark with no responsibilities. When Crowley opened her eyes the shop owner was still there. She stood beneath the large oculus in the roof, hands folded neatly in front of her and watched Crowley with a speculative twist to her mouth. The light from the oculus above gave her an ethereal glow to her hair and her eyes.

The shop, now that Crowley could be bothered to take it in, was unsettling too. As cluttered as the space was, it felt too big. Too broad to fit neatly into one universe alone. It tugged at her mind, stretching her vision uncomfortably. Crowley suspected that if she stopped concentrating, she’d be sucked up in it and lost under a drift of sheet music.

The shop owner smiled tightly and tilted her head. It was a birdlike curiosity, but birdlike in the sense of a raptor deciding whether or not to swoop in for the kill.

Crowley had never stood for being prey, part of the reason she was unemployed again, but habits stuck to her like glue. She slid her glasses down her nose and glared at the shop owner.

The shop owner increased her head tilt slightly. There may have been a slight increase to her frown too. Crowley was too far away to really read the emotions in her eyes, but it was still the most underwhelming reaction she’d ever had. Crowley pushed her glasses back up her nose.

“Well, thanks for this.” She put down her untouched cocoa. Probably drugged. The creepy owner no doubt had a graveyard of awkward customers in her basement. It would certainly explain the odd smell.

“Do come again.” It actually sounded like the owner meant it. Meant it in the same way a vampire would say they’d love to have you over for dinner.

Crowley’s mouth contorted into a grimace. She lifted her coat back over her head and went out to take her chances waiting by the bus stop.

That night, Crowley dreamed of feathers, soft and white as innocence. They tickled her arms and tingled a bit too because there was fire in them. It flickered delicately along each pearly shaft that dragged over her skin. A gentle mouth, aided by not so gentle teeth, followed the passage of the feathers. Her neck, her breasts, her belly. Teasing, soothing. Crowley squirmed. She rolled her hips up towards an invisible something. 

Her hips didn’t hurt. She felt lithe and strong, and free.

“Oh, you gorgeous creature.” A voice as thick as sun-warmed honey. Soft and luxurious as velvet against her damp skin. 

“Please.” 

The voice laughed. Not unkindly, but with enough of an edge to make Crowley tremble. Feathers smoothed over her thighs, followed by warm breath. 

Crowley dug her fingers into the sheets. Her toes curled. 

“Pleassse.” She bit her lip, choking any further hissing back down. 

“Shhh,” the voice whispered, causing cool air to tickle Crowley’s clit. “I’ll take care of you, won't I?”

Crowley’s head tipped back, spine arching towards the voice and the tantalising drag of feathers. Her skin was pulled taut, each nerve dancing. Nails scratched at her sides. Sharp nails. A shocking pain against the softness of the tongue opening her up. 

Pleasure wove through her, tight and unbearable. Then she was gasping, crying out as she fell. 

Crowley’s head cracked the headboard. Her eyes jerked open.

The sun rudely crept beneath her black out curtains and punched her right in the retinas. Her own ragged breathing faded to make room for the hum of London traffic. Crowley closed her eyes, limbs heavy and fingers slick between her thighs. For a moment, Crowley wasn’t sure where she was. The scents and sounds of the world were all wrong. 

It was too bright. She threw the duvet back. Her alarm clock flashed 9.35am at her. Crowley sat up, fumbling for a clean towel from the pile of washing that was collapsing into the wall at the foot of her bed. She’d get round to putting it away one day. Crowley couldn’t remember the last time she’d been able to sleep so late. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d come so hard or had the energy to even contemplate trying. Odd, that. Embarrassing, too. Not that Warlock would have heard her, surely, but it felt strange doing it with him in the house. 

The alarm clock slid round to 9.36. It was probably nothing, Crowley convinced herself as panic crept up her spine. She swung her legs out of bed and walked briskly, surely there was no need to run, to Warlock’s room. Crowley eased the door open and peered hard at the cot. It seemed innocent enough. She slunk towards it, hips aching from being caught out in the damp yesterday, and gently pulled back the blanket.

The cot was empty.

Crowley stared at it while her eyes argued there was nothing to see and her brain objected violently. She had put Warlock down at seven last night. And at 11.30 when he’d woken up yelling. She’d put him down again at 1.45. At 3.05 she’d ignored the crying for about two minutes while she screamed her exhaustion into the pillow.

In the hazy dark of a too early morning, she’d been jagged and raw. Not thinking straight. Loving Warlock hadn’t felt like enough when Crowley had been so tired she would have done anything to be able to go back to sleep. This was wrong. She shouldn’t be doing this alone, she should have known she’d mess it up. Crowley had never been the one with patience. All angry, sharp edges and restlessness. There her thoughts had hit a wall of rock and left her adrift and lonely, feeling that she should be somewhere else. Someone else. Something else.

Warlock had been trying to swing on his cot bars at that point. The thump of it punctuated the crying, combined with wails of mummy!

“I wish,” she’d growled into the pillow. “I wish…”

The cot sounded in real danger of breaking.

“Iwishsomeonewouldmakeyougoaway!”

Then Crowley had dragged her hands over her face, gotten up, settled Warlock down again and crawled back into bed at about 4am.

Crowley had put him in his cot. He’d been fine. Cheek pressed into the pillow and bottom in the air as he’d snuffled back to sleep.

Crowley’s skin iced over. She gazed round the room in case Warlock had managed to get out of his cot and was asleep somewhere else. 

A laugh trickled in from the hallway. Feet thudded on the floorboards as something scuttled away from the door. Crowley jerked it open. There was only silence. A wooden duck with flappy feet, designed to be pushed along by a handle rested by the cot. Crowley's fingers closed around it. It would be better than nothing. 

Heart thudding, Crowley stepped into the hallway. “Warlock?”

As though he’d come when she called him. Crowley walked along the hall, eyes desperately searching for any sign of messy black hair and a white and red striped onesie.

“Warlock?” Crowley nudged open the living room door with her hip, wooden duck held in the attack position.

“There you are!”

“What the fuck!” Crowley dropped the duck.

“Sorry, did I startle you?” The bookshop owner got up from Crowley’s second hand sofa. She'd been flicking through Crowley's book of photographs from the NASA archives and drinking tea. Crowley was pretty sure she didn’t own any saucers. Or a sugar bowl. If she had, they wouldn’t have been so offensively chintzy. The shop owner’s brightness was dazzling against the cramped, undecorated since the eighties darkness of Crowley’s rented flat.

“Of course you bloody startled me. How did you get in here?” Crowley reclaimed the flappy duck. Her voice was rising in desperation and volume, “How did you get in here?!”

The shop owner replaced her tea cup on its saucer. Her lips parted, shut, parted again. “I flew in through your bathroom window in the shape of an owl.”

“I’m calling the police.” Too late, Crowley realised she was in a short black cotton night dress and her phone was upstairs. “Stay there. Let me grab my phone and you are getting nicked!” Crowley began to back away, and stopped when confronted with the possibility that leaving this crazy stalker alone in her living room was probably not the most sensible course of action. 

“Oh, I really don’t think I am getting nicked.” The shop owner stood up, spine straight and chin regally lifted.

Crowley made a noise between a whine and a growl. She waved the wooden duck threateningly. “Where is my son?”

“Safe. He’s safe. Honestly, I thought you’d be more grateful.” The shop owner’s lips pursed.

“Grateful! You’re a housebreaker and a kidnapper…”

The shop owner threw up her hands. “You asked me to take him!”

“I did no such thing! Why would I even…?” Last night sidled up to Crowley looking sheepish. “Shit.”

“Yes. Quite.” 

“Well now I want him back. Bring him back.”

“Say the magic word.”

Crowley ground her teeth. “I wish you’d bring him back.”

“I was thinking please. I was also being facetious. And are you really sure that’s what you want, my dear?” She stepped closer, studying Crowley like she was a particularly fiendish crossword clue. “I mean, you’ve just had your first lie in for two years. You could get a job without limiting yourself to shift work that will work around childcare. You could start dating again. Go to the cinema, a wine bar. Pick someone up and bring them home for some spontaneous hanky panky…”

“Please never say hanky panky to me again. Or ever.” Crowley did not want to think about sex in realtion to this disturbing woman. If nothing else it just made Crowley more aware of the dampness still on her thighs, and of how inappropriate it was to realise the person currently winding you up with anger and frustration smelled so good. “I want my son back,” Crowley tried to focus on what was important. 

The shop owner sighed. “I’m trying to offer you all that your heart desires. You’re just not giving much to work with.” She stepped forward again.

Crowley stepped back. Her hip caught on the edge of the sofa and she stumbled slightly as she half slid round it. It was like trying to knock a planet out of orbit, though. The shop owner’s eyes dragged over Crowley’s face as she calmly twisted the wooden duck from Crowley's grasp. Her fingers rested on Crowley’s jaw, tilting her head this way and that. The duck quacked to the floor. Crowley inhaled sharply, the touch of the shop owner’s fingers on hers had left pinpricks of heat. She backed up again, her shoulder blades bumping the wall. 

“Your mind is locked up very tight, and your heart…?” The shop owner frowned, crowding in close, face looking up as she searched Crowley’s eyes. 

Crowley’s head tilted back, the crown tapping the wall behind her. They were nose to nose. 

“My heart?” Crowley breathed, awkwardly aware that this was the closest she’d been to another adult for a very long time. Her skin tingled for attention.

The shop owner pulled back, inhaling sharply. “Never mind. Perfectly fine. None of my business.”

Crowley tried not to be disappointed. She should be thinking of Warlock not the tickle of feathers and the pressure of a tongue between her legs. Crowley knew she wasn’t made right. Knew there was something missing. Her heart was full of love for Warlock, but there were fine cracks where something else had been. Something that oozed hot and angry as lava. Something that would leave tears on her cheeks when she woke up, but melted away in sunlight.

“I want Warlock back,” Crowley insisted. She loved Warlock. He was all she had left of...pain lanced behind her eyes. She pinched the bridge of her nose to hide it.

“You’ve said, but it’s really not that simple. You see, we have a verbal agreement. You said the words. I can’t just hand him back now, I’d be a laughing stock and there would be so much paperwork...” The shop owner threw up her hands. 

“I don’t care about your bloody paperwork.” Crowley surged forward, grabbing the insufferable woman by the front of her ugly coat, twisting them until she was the one pushed into the wall. 

As soon as the movement ceased, Crowley knew it was a mistake. She was awkwardly conscious of being practically naked, her nipples pebbling where they brushed a beige waistcoat. 

The bookshop owner gazed up at her with her strange, wide eyes. She appeared frustratingly unimpressed by the manhandling. “Well you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t be the one doing it, and they do check you know. Look, I can make you a deal. Would that suit?”

"I don't care! Just bring him back!" 

"Fine, if you'd unhand me."

"Unhand me," Crowley mimicked as she stepped back. 

The shop owner pursed her lips as she adjusted her collar, then her cuffs. "Fine," she said again. She clicked her fingers and Crowley felt herself falling.


	2. Young Romantically Available Ingénue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley starts to solve the labyrinth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “when someone offers to save you make it your mission to save yourself. -”  
> ― Amanda Lovelace, The Princess Saves Herself in this One
> 
> Thank you all for reading. And thank you again to Jamgrl for the beta.

Crowley blinked. She stood on the street outside the bookshop. A soft, dense hush cloaked the empty world and the sky burned orange and pink. The shop looked taller, stretched up high with turrets at the corners and trees sprouting from it's upper windows. 

Odd. Crowley lifted her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Nope. That didn’t make it any better. 

She had her glasses back on! The relief of having that shield against the world back was knee weakening. She also had her clothes on. Favourite black jeans, comfy boots. Her warm coat.

“You were distracting me in that silky slip of a thing,” the shop owner murmured.

“Oh, I’m sorry my nightwear was making you uncomfortable.” Rather snark than gratitude. Crowley didn’t owe this creature a thing, and her head hurt. Not the normal lancing pain she got from he eyes, but a dull ache. Like a bad tooth that she wanted to worry at but couldn't reach. 

The shop owner gave Crowley a sideways glance, mouth twisted in disapproval. “I rather got the impression it was making you uncomfortable as well.” She was different too. Still the same depressingly beige clothes and unruly hair, but the whole ensemble looked more regal. She produced a pocket watch from her waistcoat pocket. “Please stop thinking of me as the shop owner. It’s not so much a possession as an extension of myself. And I have a name.”

Crowley didn’t care. Of all the questions she had that was one of the least, although how the shop owner knew what Crowley was thinking had just bumped itself up the list in priority. 

“It’s Aziraphale, since you are kind enough to ask. Well, actually Her Majesty Queen Aziraphale of Easterngate and the Realms Beyond, but please don’t feel you have to stand on ceremony, a simple ma’am will do. As in ham. Not harm.” 

“Aziraphale, I want my son back.” Crowley was very much not a Royalist. 

“I can give you thirteen hours,” Aziraphale said as she considered her pocket watch. 

“To do what exactly?” Crowley snapped.

“Get to the centre of the bookshop in order to retrieve your son, of course.” Aziraphale smiled as though she thought she was being helpful, and not driving Crowley off the edge of reason in a very fast car.

Crowley turned on her. “Don’t you dare play games with me! I am  _ not _ some young romantically available ingénue, here.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale lifted her pale eyebrows. “You’re not romantically available?”

Crowley opened her mouth, but found she had nothing useful to put in it.

Aziraphale tilted her head. “Because, my dear, you really shouldn’t go pushing people into walls when you’re half naked like that if you’re _ not _ romantically available. Gives quite the wrong impression.”

“You’re hardly in a position to judge me, seeing as you go around stealing other people’s children.”

“I did not steal. You asked for him to be taken, as I have explained already…”

“Why?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Why did you take him just because I asked? I mean, excuse me if I’m wrong, but I can’t imagine it was because you wanted to do me any sort of favour. You’re just going to pinch my kid and give me my heart’s desire for selfless reasons, are you? What’s in it for you? What are you, come to that?” Crowley folded her arms. 

Aziraphale looked away, wiggling her shoulders and pursing her lips. “That really is a very personal question. What are you?”

“I’m human.”

“Hmm." The look that accompanied that felt far too intrusive. Crowley was relieved when Aziraphale turned back to her watch. "Look, you're wasting time. The clock has already started.”

“That’s not fair!” Crowley cried. 

“Fair? I gave you a warning, didn’t I? I’m really very busy…”

“Then you won't have time to manage a toddler, let me tell you.”

“…and not open to negotiation.”

Crowley’s first instinct was to get started. She paused though because she never could just take the easy route. “Let me get this right. I have thirteen hours…”

Aziraphale checked her watch again. “Twelve hours and fifty-three minutes.”

“…to get to the centre of your bookshop where you’re keeping my son, and if I do that…”

“Fifty-two,” Aziraphale sighed. 

“You’ll let me take him home. We can just walk out of there?”

“Of course. If you still want to.”

“Oh,  _ you’ll _ want me too. When you’ve got sticky fingerprints and snot all over your first editions you’ll be begging me to take him back.”

“We’ll see. Fifty-one.”

Crowley stepped forward, hesitated. "What happens if I don't make it?" 

Aziraphale winced. "Best not worry about that."

"Well if anything is going to make me worry you saying that will." 

Aziraphale glanced up at Crowley, and the fear in her eyes was catching. For the first time since she'd seen Aziraphale in her flat there was a crack in Crowley's anger for despair to bleed through. She'd always known she'd be a rubbish parent, hadn't intended it all really just...there was something there. Something just floating on the edge of dreaming. Crowley reached for it and the almost memory dissolved. 

"Fifty." Aziraphale made it sound like an apology. “You’d best get a wiggle on.”

“ _ Wiggle on? _ ” Crowley shook her head. Yes, Warlock had been an accident, but your normal sort of inexperienced fumbling in the back of your boyfriend's first car accident. She was sure of it. Course she was. Just being fanciful. Couldn't blame her the way today was going. Crowley gave Aziraphale her best glare and then ran across the road. At least this time it wasn’t raining. 

“Good luck.” Aziraphale snapped the pocket watch shut.

The bell jingled merrily as Crowley slammed open the door. “Warlock?” Crowley looked around wildly. She got the unsettling impression the bookshop was looking right back. The strains of familiar music flowed from a gramophone in the corner. Something soft and romantic, very second world war Glenn Millar croony. Not to her taste at all. 

Crowley breathed hard through her nose as she spun around. The centre of the bookshop. That wouldn’t be the bit beneath the oculus. Too easy. She walked towards it anyway, heels thudding on the polished wood floor, then silent on the rug. Shelves wound off in all directions creating tunnels that faded to black in the distance. “Warlock?!” She yelled again, desperation shaking her voice.

“Just a moment!”

Crowley whirled round.

A toilet flushed and a young man wandered out from behind one of the lines of shelves wiping his hand on a towel.

“Who are you?”

“Not Warlock, sorry about that. I’m Newt.” Newt held out a hand, thought better of it in the presence of Crowley’s anger and stepped back. 

He looked youngish, and badly put together. Too many joints and an expression that was permanently expecting disapproval. He pulled a fly swatter from the back of his trousers and approached Crowley cautiously. “May I just?” He waved the fingers of his free hand at her shoulder. “You’ve got something…”

As Crowley twisted her head to peer at her shoulder, Newt brought down the swatter with a thwack. Crowley screamed. She wasn’t the only one. Whatever had been perched on her shrieked and then moved in a blur of grey across the floor. Newt went after it, swinging the fly swatter. It looked like he was going to charge straight into the wall, but skidded to a halt, stumbling on the rugs as he did so. He put out a hand to grab a shelf. Man and shelf swayed for a moment before they both righted themselves. 

“Sorry about that. You had a dust bunny.” Newt cautiously let go of the shelf.

“A what?” Crowley rubbed at her shoulder. “That  _ hurt _ !”

“You were lucky there was only one. If there’d been a fluffle, we would have been in trouble.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. They began to slide back down again. “A fluffle of them swallowed the last one down whole.”

“Last one? What do you mean the last one?”

“The last woman her ethereal majesty lured here.” Newt said from behind the bookshop counter and its antiquated till where he was now rummaging in drawers. 

“She’s done this before?” Crowley asked with horror. 

“Not since 1801, I think.”

“What happened to the child?” Crowley wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but couldn't not ask. Best get the stakes sorted out as soon as possible, get the worst of it out in the open.

“Oh, turned out he wasn't the child she was looking for.” Newt’s smile was in no way reassuring. “So her Royal Magnificence got him into university. Became a doctor, he did, but decided he wanted to spend his time cutting up corpses. Made great strides in medical science, but when he couldn't get corpses fresh enough, decided to make his own. Being raised by an owl queen in an enchanted bookshop can send you a little mad, you see?” Newt smiled helpfully.

Oh, Crowley saw, but still couldn't make sense of it. “She's looking for a particular child, then?”

“She seems to think so. Don't ask me. I just do the meet and greet. Speaking of which.” Newt dropped a folder on the counter top. “I just need some signatures, and there’s some bits in here you may find useful.”

“Like a map to the centre?”

He laughed nervously. “No, but look. There’s a packed lunch.” He held up a brown paper back happily.

“You know I'm on a schedule here?” Time was ticking down, and so were Crowley’s reserves of patience. 

“Her Glorious Benevolence would have taken that into account. Why do you think she gave you thirteen hours instead of twelve?”

“Because thirteen is just more witchy?” Crowley asked dryly. 

“She wanted to make sure you had time to be fully prepared. And I wouldn’t call her the ‘w’ word, or the ‘f’ word. She’s quite sensitive about it.” Newt continued to organise the sheaf of papers. Some of them had coloured post-its stuck on them. 

“F word?” Crowley asked, curious despite herself. 

Newt peered around warily then whispered, “ _ Fairy _ .”

The music on the gramophone wobbled. Newt jumped, terrified.

“How about the ‘b’ word?” Crowley asked.

Puzzled, Newt shook his head.

“For _ bitch _ ?”

Newt frowned in disapproval and went back to his papers. “I wouldn’t risk it.”

“Look, Newt.” Crowley dropped an elbow on the shop's counter. “Just point me in the right direction and let me get on with it, ok?”

“Oh, I can’t.”

Crowley threw up her hands, turned on her heel and began stalking off. Any direction would do. Newt snatched the packet off the counter and jogged after her. His legs were as long as Crowley’s but she was quicker, and unencumbered by paper and youthful awkwardness. She picked a direction and ran.

“Wait,” Newt called. “Not that way!”

Despite the ache in her hips, Crowley ran faster. 


	3. Violence and Menaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dust bunnies attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Jamgrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamgrl/pseuds/jamgrl)
> 
> and [Shewhotreksings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherwhotreksings/pseuds/Sherwhotreksings) for the opera 101
> 
> “Fuck the idea of staying calm.”  
> ― Amanda Lovelace, The Witch Doesn't Burn in This One

Crowley tried to keep running, but it was impossible to maintain any speed with the shelves twisting and turning, and leaving her at dead ends. Only when Crowley was frustrated and exhausted did she think it probably would have been useful to leave a trail so she could find her way out again.

She should have taken the packed lunch for breadcrumbs. 

Heart pounding in her ears, Crowley flung herself against the nearest shelf. It rocked but held. She leapt for the shelf opposite, giving it a push. Some of the looser stacked books slid over, but that held too. Kicking, screaming and dragging books off shelves did nothing but make Crowley's muscles hurt, especially her contrary hips, and get a slightly sour smell in the air.

“You don’t like it? Come and stop me!” Crowley screeched.

Whatever disapproving presence had been loitering withdrew. Crowley sunk to her haunches, arms wrapped around her knees. The music started playing again. Grainy with the age of the gramophone, but the voice smooth and in love. 

“Really? You can’t get Capital FM?” She rubbed her aching hip, frustration washing away leaving her tired and empty. 

The music got just perceptibly louder. 

Crowley pulled herself up and began to inspect the books around her. No logical order, at least they didn’t seem to be arranged in any way that she could discern. She wished any single one of them would be a collection of fairy tales. She could use some instructions right now. Fine, just pick a direction, any direction. Keep going. She’d beat the bookshop labyrinth through sheet stubbornness if she had to. 

Something scuffled behind her. Crowley turned around slowly, squinting back down the empty path of shelves. “Fly swatter boy?” she called. 

Another scuffle behind her.

Very slowly, Crowley turned so she could back into one of the shelves. Above her, claws scratched on the wood. Crowley looked up. 

She caught a glimpse of big black eyes, sharp teeth in a floofy grey face. Then something landed on her nose. 

It’s claws were sharp, dragging across Crowley’s cheek as it scrabbled for purchase. Crowley beat at it with her hands. Pain lanced up her leg. One of the fuckers had got her ankle. Crowley tried to stamp on it with her free foot. She spun around, dragging the one on her face off, sure she was taking some of her skin with her. 

The dust bunnies hopped in madness around her. She swung out her leg, kicking some of them. Another landed on her shoulder with a whump, getting its teeth in her neck. 

Bloody bookshop. Must be a fire extinguisher around her somewhere. 

Crowley grabbed the heaviest book she could find and, using it as a club, waded through the evil little buggers. All her brain could scream was  _ away! _

They came with her, tumbling over and climbing on each other in an effort to crawl up her legs. 

God, this was nightmare fodder for years. If she survived it.

Crowley got her hands on the edge of a shelf and used it to drag herself forward. There! A flash of red. Crowley stumbled forward, jerking the fire extinguisher from the wall. 

She turned it on the dust bunnies, fumbling with the catch as her hands shook. 

They hissed and shrieked as the water hit them, changing direction like a tide. Crowley kept her finger on the trigger until they’d all scurried back down the corridor or into the shelves. She threw the fire extinguisher down, ripped the dust bunny from her neck and held it up by the scruff of its neck. It’s short front paws scrabbled at her. It’s little mouth gnashed at the air. 

Crowley drop kicked it away from her. It ricocheted off a shelf with a squeak and landed in the darkness with a thump.

Crowley collapsed in a heap. 

Footsteps thudded urgently towards her and Newt materialized out of the gloom, fly swatter raised. He stopped and took in the scene, and replaced the fly swatter in his back pocket.

“Oh dear,” he said. “And you haven’t even signed the disclaimer yet.” He crouched down. “And the books! The books are wet! This is a Wilde!”

"Feeling pretty wild myself," Crowley hissed. 

A small injured dustbunny, half its original size now that it was soaked with water, fell out of the book Newt was shaking. It chittered and spat, then began to limp away. Newt stomped on it. He twisted his heel into the carpet and said. “Bother.” When he lifted his foot there was a red smear on the rug. “Double bother.”

“I’m ok. Thank you for asking.” Crowley heaved herself up. “Didn’t need your help anyway.”

Newt looked forlornly at the sopping wet books. “Maybe if I get a hairdryer on them. How did this even…?” His gaze fixed on the discarded fire extinguisher. “Where did you get that?!” His finger shot out like a harbinger of doom. 

“Over there.” Crowley gestured vaguely in the direction of where there had been a wall, but apparently no longer was. It having been replaced with more endless shelves. Which was cheating, in her opinion. How was she supposed to reach the centre if the paths kept changing?

“We don’t have them in the shop because...well because of this!” Newt held up the dripping book. 

“You’d prefer the whole place to be burned down?” Crowley snarled. “Because that can be arranged.”

Newt gasped. He dropped the book as his hands covered his mouth. “Take that back!” he mumbled. “Her most Ethereal Gloriousness would never permit…”

“Oh, I don’t give a damn.” Crowley began to search her pockets. “Why the Hell did I ever give up smoking?” She was going mad. That was the only explanation for being trapped in this mad concoction of nightmares with only a complete idiot for company. Her nerves were frayed and her body aching. Her mind cartwheeled madly. 

“She will smite you mightily!” Newt warned stepping towards Crowley.

“Yeah, let’s see Her Stupendous Annoyance try!” Crowley stepped back. Her fingers closed on the plastic oblong in her inner pocket. She held it triumphantly aloft. “Ha!”

Crowley stepped back again as Newt lunged for her. Her boot came down on a square rug that hadn’t been there moments before. It collapsed beneath Crowley’s weight, twisting and contorting as it slithered into the dark hole it had been covering. Crowley toppled backwards with it, hands flailing as she tried to grasp at the shelves. She fell, body tumbling downwards, fingers and feet kicking out to find the solid walls of the chute. Her shoulders hit rock, stinging pain lanced through her knees, then she was deposited on the ground with a whump. Air rushed from her lungs and her head fell back with a crack.

Wine buzzed through Crowley’s veins as the bookshelves whirled past. Above the oculus clouds blurred in a clear blue sky. A steadying arm held her waist. Her palms rested on sturdy shoulders. The world was still pressing in from outside, but here and now she was giddy, and happy. Light as joy. 

_ 'How could he know we two were so in love _

_ The whole darn world seemed upside down _

_ The streets uptown were paved with stars'  _

This was home. Crowley tried to glimpse who she had made this home with. Who had made this home for her. The music slowed and she was pulled closer to a body that smelt of sunsets and cool air. 

"Play a happy one next. Your music is always so gloomy." Crowley held her dance partner close, or at least, as close as she could with her swollen belly in the way, and slid her fingers deep into pale curls.

“This is happy!"

"It sounds gloomy." 

"Choose one for me then.” Warm breath tickled her ear. “I built this place for you after all. It’ll listen to you."

Everything hurt. Crowley lay for a minute staring at the flickering light of the metal and glass lamps that hung at intervals down the stone tunnel. It had an arched ceiling that curved into shadow, cobwebs as thick as fabric clogging up every available space. The floor was packed earth, warm and ochre. It was all very medieval dungeon, which was not reassuring. Crowley coaxed her torso upright and whatever she was sitting on shifted. It was a moderately large landslide of sheet music and play bills, it's edges giving way to the packed earth of the tunnel's floor. 

The music from Crowley's dream was still rolling around the tunnel, the same song over and over, although Crowley would be damned if she could see a speaker anywhere. 

“Oh, good. You’re awake.” Newt perched on the upturned monitor of what must have been the universe’s oldest computer half submerged in the ground. The screen was shattered and it trailed frayed cables across the sand. He held out a bundle of paper and a biro. “I really do need you to sign this.” He swallowed, wilting under Crowley’s derision. “When you’re ready, of course.”

Crowley slithered down the pile of paper and on to her feet. “What the actual Hell?”

“You did use violence and menaces,” Newt said with a reasonableness that made Crowley want to shake him. 

“Those vermin were going to eat me!” Crowley protested. 

“Not them. The books. Honestly, you’re lucky they didn’t let you fall even further.” He gazed at her, blinking through his glasses. “How did you even manage to get a flame in the shop in the first place? You must have some potent magic. Are you a sorceress?”

“I’m a barista.” Crowley folded her arms. “Or I was anyway. And your boss has stolen my son. I am not in the wrong here.”

The music was louder now. And it had changed from something straight out of Crowley's dreams to a haunting, operatic song. Newt hopped to his feet, face going pale. “Oh no. It’s  _ Porgi Amor _ . Now you’ve done it.”

“Huh?” 

The close air of the tunnel was vibrating with the volume of music now. The leaves of the playbills fluttered urgently. 

Newt closed his eyes. “ _ Grant, love, Some relief, To my sorrow, To my sighing, Either give me back, My beloved, Or just let me die _ .”

“Somewhat dramatic,” Crowley said.

“Believe me, my dear, I am only just beginning with the dramatics.” Aziraphale twisted herself out of the shadows, blue scarf and skirts billowing. 

Crowley shrieked, boots skidding on sheet music as she backed away. 

“You’ve ruined Oscar,” Aziraphale stepped delicately over the paper after her. “He was an  _ antique _ .” She held up a rather soggy volume bound in green leather. 

“I want my son back!” Crowley shot back as she clambered backwards over the slope of paper that continued to shift beneath her. 

“Oh, play me a different tune!”

Crowley found a solid place on which to hold her ground on the slope of playbills. “I could say the same for you. What is this mad emo bullshit?”

The music wobbled as though the gramophone needle had slipped. Aziraphale, also precariously balanced on the pile of paper just below Crowley, squared her shoulders. “I have no idea what an emo is, but I can assure you it is not Mozart! Newt! Why have you not got this young lady to sign the appropriate waivers?”

“I'm 37! And you leave him alone. He’s not your bloody chattel, your majesty.” Crowley was fully prepared to fight over anything. Even the irritating Newt. And she was enjoying this. For all her airs, Aziraphale had less power over Crowley than her babysitter or her managers. The only power she had over Crowley was what Crowley chose to give her. Crowley wasn't feeling generous. 

“I beg to differ. He is very much my chattel,” Aziraphale snapped. 

The gramophone screeched along every one of Crowley’s nerves. She wanted it to stop so badly. Wanted that bloody aria to stop. Her fingers dug into her temples. “I’m going to solve your bloody labyrinth. Just you wait. It’ll be a breeze. Then I’m taking my son and dropping a match on the way out.”

Pure rage clouded Aziraphale's eyes. She quivered. “If you’re feeling so confident.” With a click of her fingers a clock appeared, the hands spinning as they took time off what remained of Crowley's thirteen hours. 

“Hey! What are you doing.” Crowley gasped. 

“If it’s such a  _ breeze _ , you wont need all the time I gave you.” Aziraphale folded her arms. 

“That’s not fair! You can’t do that.”

“I can. I’m Queen!”

“I’ll give you Queen!” Crowley cried, outrage bubbling over into a toxic red cloud. She wanted to rip something, batter it into submission. 

The gramophone screeched again and the candles in the lamps flickered. Mozart was replaced by a familiar rock beat and Freddie Mercury began to ask for somebody to love. 

Aziraphale whipped round, neatly skidding down the slope of play bills. “Who is playing bebop in my shop?”

Crowley laughed. Her blood thrummed with something joyous. There was no pain. Not in her back, her legs, her head. She was pulsing with pure adrenalin, and the maternal guilt about having a good time while Warlock was missing could barely compete with it. 

Azirphale looked at her with horror. “That’s just...Honestly, I have never!”

Crowley continued to grin. 

Aziraphale stepped back. “You have ten hours and fifty-six minutes,” she said through gritted teeth. Then she twisted into shadows and vanished. 

Newt dropped his pen. His mouth gaped. “What did you do?”

“Stood up to her, didn’t I? Can’t have it all her own what just because she’s a mad monster monarch. Now how do I get out of this tunnel?” Crowley slithered down from the playbills with as much dignity as she could. 

“I can’t help you!” Newt backed away holding papers to his chest. “The rules of the game…” His back hit the tunnel wall.

Crowley loomed over him, gave him a glare over the tops of her glasses. She felt powerful. She felt good. “Look, Her Amazing Irritance could come back at any minute, I get that. What you need to appreciate though is that I’m here right now.”

Newt’s throat bobbed. “This way,” he said. 


	4. Cats?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets a visit. Crowley gets a suprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Wishes are false. Hope is true. Hope makes its own magic.”
> 
> ― Laini Taylor, Daughter of Smoke & Bone
> 
> Thank you to Jamgrl for the beta.

Aziraphale trembled as she circled the stone font set in the centre of the bookshop’s backroom. She had to step around shelves and be careful not to catch her hip on the edge of the sofa as she did it. Really, she should have made the time to tidy up before embarking on another foray into motherhood. Still, couldn't be helped, and Crowley's desperation had been too honest to pass up. 

She only struck when the desire for peace was real. 

She wasn't a monster. 

The water in the font rippled gently, the captured light shaping itself into Crowley's lean figure following Newt through the tunnels beneath the bookshop. 

Crowley still had just over nine hours left. How had she managed to get so far? And how had the shop responded to her like that? Aziraphale paused, frowning down at Crowley's reflection. There was something about the curl of her lip, the sinuosity of her impossible hips. It was like a song she’d forgotten the words to. 

Still, at least she’d got that horrible music to stop. 

“Infuriating woman! I’ve never been spoken to like that before! Six thousand years of existence and no one has ever…”

“No one, love?” Tracy stood well out of the firing zone of any spontaneous magical outbursts that Aziraphale might wish to indulge in, the child curled against her side, his face tucked against her neck, snoring gently. 

Aziraphale stopped. She twisted her hands. “Yes, well, you're different.”

And yet, there had been others too. Aziraphale was sure of it. The wound was fresh and raw and Aziraphale couldn't stop scratching it, despite not knowing the cause. 

Tracy edged closer, rocking gently in case the child should wake up again. "Not a spring chicken, is she?" Her jewelry clinked as she peered into the shifting surface of the water mirror.

"None of us are." Aziraphale looked back too.

There was an ageless essence to Crowley. Her mind had been twisted up, a tangled mess of fractured time and hidden caves. Her heart had felt old. It had felt as weary with beating as Aziraphale's. 

She shivered, her isolation was a cold pressure around her, but for a moment, in Crowley's presence, it had eased, been lightened by the existence of a kindred spirit. No, don't hope. She was alone. Always alone. And Crowley hated her. As was right. 

After all, Aziraphale had her books, and her three servants, and occasionally a child to help raise. No one quite like her, though. No one who loved her, or who she could love forever. No one who wouldn't eventually leave. 

Aziraphale loved the children, as well as she could, but they weren't hers. And that hurt in a way she couldn’t comprehend. She didn’t even like children. 

"The younger women haven't exactly been doing well in the labyrinth," Aziraphale worried at her lip. "I thought it time we gave experience a chance over innocence?" 

“And she’s not bad to look at either,” Tracy observed. 

“I hadn’t noticed,” Aziraphale said primly. 

Despite having her arms full of child, Tracy managed to have an elbow free to dig Aziraphale in the ribs. "And what will you do if she succeeds?" Tracy asked. “Seeing as she is already doing so well.”

"Give the child back."

"The Sylph Lords will not be happy."

"When are they ever? I can’t go back on my word though. There are rules! Standards to be maintained." Aziraphale tentatively ran a hand through the child's hair. "And do you really think this is the one we are looking for?” 

Tracy sighed. “The prophecy doesn’t give much to go on.”

“And I can only take the children freely offered.” Aziraphale nibbled her thumb nail, although stopped when Tracy tutted her disapproval. And the truth was half the parents didn't want the child back anyway. Half of the children Aziraphale had found abandoned on hillsides or in stone circles. In gutters, or institutions built to hide them away. Sometimes she wished she could take more of them. 

This was a hopeless situation. Aziraphale was bound to be brought thoroughly to task if the child wasn’t the one they were looking for again. And if it was, well, that didn't bear thinking about.

Generally prophecies were tricksy things. Twisty and turny. Aziraphale regretted she’d ever solved this particular one. If she’d found a better use for her time recuperating from her leg wound then she wouldn’t have put herself in this position. She still wanted to stop the war, of course she did, but handing a child over to Gabriel really didn't seem like the most responsible thing she could do. 

Too clever for your own good, Tracy had always said. And too naive. 

Tracy was tireless, but the child was not small. With some less than smooth negotiation Aziraphale took him onto her hip. He smelled of sleep and warm bread. A comforting weight that made the coldness inside her momentarily melt, and then freeze over harder than before when she remembered what might happen to him. 

She stroked soft, downy hair and looked back into the mirror. Tracy's hand caressed Aziraphale's forearm. A gentle pressure of solidarity. "Are you quite alright, love."

"Lord!" Aziraphale held the child tighter. "So much pressure to put on something so tiny. How can we expect him to be able to stop a war so old? What have I done to him, to all of them?”

“What you thought was right,” Tracy murmured. 

That didn't help, when what you thought was right was starting to feel so very, very wrong. Aziraphale shook her head. It didn't matter. Everytime she stole a child, every time a new player stepped into the labyrinth she went through this dance with herself. Hope and fear swirling together, arms locked. 

And every one of the women had red hair. As though that meant something. It meant nothing. 

A crack of lightning briefly illuminated the bookshop's backroom. Aziraphale gripped the child tighter, turning her back to the searing light. She placed her hand on the back of the child’s head, touching his mind, gentle as a feather, and ensuring he stayed asleep. He’d be grouchier when he woke up, but no one should have to deal with Gabriel unless they had to. 

“I see we have another player, Aziraphale. And it’s only been what? Two hundred years?” Gabriel smiled, clasping his hands in front of him. 

In linear time yes, but their world didn’t move the same as the mortal one. And the bookshop didn’t ever remain fixed to one point in history. Or in space come to that. The original idea was that this would make it harder for people like Gabriel to find. 

Aziraphale still hadn’t quite got to the bottom of why she’d felt she needed such a space. Whenever she thought about it too much, the thought uncoiled like smoke. 

She studied Gabriel’s wide smile, his eyes never quite letting their guard down, and the suspicion that he wasn’t entirely to be trusted wormed its way back to the surface of Aziraphale’s thoughts. 

But if she didn’t belong with the rest of her people, then what did she have?

“I didn’t wish to waste everyone’s time and energy on a wild goose chase,” Aziraphale said quickly. “It takes time to do all the necessary checks and to run through procedures, ensure the staff are all up to date with health and safety.”

“Commendable.” Gabriel nodded. “Two hundred years will be worth the wait I’m sure. If this is the correct child?”

Aziraphale tried not to draw back as Gabriel stepped forward. He peered at the child, a look of puzzled horror on his face. “Smells a bit.”

He did, now that his lordship came to mention it. Tracy rushed in and thankfully took the child away. With a worried glance back at Aziraphale. she slipped from the back room in a rustle of silks and a warbled lullaby. 

"Well, excellent.” Gabriel peered into the font. “Hardly the first flush of youth, is she? Still I suppose that will make her less likely to succeed, won't it? More likely we get a chance to test the child and see if it has the potential to fulfil the prophecy? I suppose that was your thinking.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “If you like.” She made herself meet Gabriel’s eyes. “Is there anything else?”

He stepped closer. “Now that we are alone, I wanted to give you some helpful advice, a heads up as to the current political climate.”

Aziraphale narrowed her eyes. His closeness meant she could stare straight up his nostrils. Her own nose was full of his cologne.

“We're willing to continue supporting you. It’s admirable, what you are doing, giving up your own chance at military glory to try and find the child that can stop the war. However, there is a general feeling in the higher echelons that this endeavour is becoming an unnecessary burden on resources, a distraction from the real matter in hand which is that wars are fought to be won…”

“Six thousand years, my lord, and no one has won yet.”

At least not completely. One side might gain the upper hand for a few centuries and a facsimile of peace reigned until the next revolution kicked off. 

“Hmm. Just thought you’d need to know.” Gabriel stepped back. “Not me, obviously. You’re doing good work, of course. Just, don’t be surprised when you fail and get put back on active duty."

Aziraphale nodded. She was sure her sword was still knocking about the place somewhere… 

"In the meantime, have you ever thought about getting some cats?” Gabriel smiled helpfully.

Aziraphale blinked. “Cats?”

“Yes, I believe they’re traditional. Or making your dress a bit more masculine. Hair covered up, long lines in black. I mean you can display more of your…” he waved his hand in the general direction of Aziraphale’s chest. “...assets.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “I am not a wicked queen in some popular animated movie. Whatever you have turned me into it is not that.”

“No?” Gabriel leaned towards her. “Because the whole volunteering to steal children because you've not any of your own reeks of that. Quite a wicked step-mother set up.”

A few thousand years ago Aziraphale would have been angry. There was part of her that still was. It wasn't entirely her fault she was bound here, searching for the child she'd predicted. A deeply buried part of Aziraphale that still allowed itself to acknowledge emotions flickered to life with fear and suspicion in the face of Gabriel’s too guileless eyes. “I’ll think about it,” she said. 

The Council of Light already thought she was a few diamonds short of a diadem. Collecting cats would just be more evidence to lock her up. She narrowed her eyes at Gabriel. There was a distinct stink of politics wafting around him. 

“Excellent!” Gabriel clapped her on the shoulder. “It’s all about branding. Instill the proper terrified respect into the players rather than looking like a cuddly maiden aunt. I’ll catch you later, yes? Keep the updates on the current game coming.”

He vanished with another ostentatious crack of lighting. 

Aziraphale dragged her fingers through the mirror's surface and when the ripples settled it showed nothing other than the bottom of the stone bowl. “I’ll give you a branding,” she muttered. “Right on your smug…” But what was the point? She stomped upstairs to see how Tracy had coped with the nappy change. 

The tunnels beneath the bookshop twisted back and forth, the torches getting gradually further apart, the shadows growing longer and grimmer. Newt went ahead, occasionally pausing at particularly sharp corners to raise his fly swatter before leaping round them with a karate chop. 

Crowley followed more sedately, taking the time to inspect the ancient, overturned bicycle, one wheel creaking as it spun lazily. Or the fragments of crystal ball built into the stone walls. She'd taken off her coat and rolled up her sleeves to offset the dry heat of the tunnels. She'd been forced to push her glasses up onto her head. The odd thing was that she could see better without them down here. No pains in her head, no blurriness. 

Crowley scratched absently at the inside of her arm. Her nails caught on something hard. She squinted down in the dark. Her skin was flaking off in a tiny patch on the inside of her elbow, and beneath it looked like a blemish, maybe? She'd stopped walking so she could scratch a bit more and hold her arm up to the dull light of a torch. The light glistened on the smooth black scale growing on her arm. No, not quite black, shimmers of red travelled over its surface. 

The fear was sharp and quick. A violent star burst followed by calm. A roll of relief, peace. Crowley glanced up. Newt's lanky frame had wobbled a fair way down the tunnel. She rolled her shirt sleeve back down and went to follow him. 

A doleful clang of bells reverberated through the tunnel. Newt froze, his head tilted like a dog’s. 

"What is it?" Crowley hurried to catch up. 

"Shhh!" He flapped his hand at her. 

The noise rolled around them. Each clang followed by a wave of slowly dying noise. The last notes faded. Newt stayed frozen, eyes wide and ears pricked. 

"Run." He spun Crowley by her shoulders, shoving her back the way they'd come. 

"What…?" 

He was past her now fleeing back towards the shadow of a rickety metal ladder bolted to the tunnel's wall. Crowley gaped after him. 

The soft thud of wings on air found her ears. A distant buzz became a roar. 

"Come on!" Newt yelled from halfway up the ladder. 

Crowley turned towards the noise. It was deafening now. As she squinted into the tunnel's shadows she saw that they weren't birds, or bat's, but books. They were flying towards them in a giant swarm, pages rustling. 

"Have you ever had a thousand paper cuts?" Newt screamed. "All at once!" 

Crowley ran for the ladder. She hauled herself up onto the first rung as an encyclopedia caught her in the head. Crowley swayed, hand coming up to hold her glasses in place. No sooner had she righted herself then more books barrelled into her, bouncing and fluttering as they fought to get her round her. 

Crowley threw herself into climbing. Hand over hand, feet pushing her up. A funnel of light stung her eyes as Newt pushed open a trapdoor above them. He hauled himself up. 

For a moment it looked like he wasn't coming back. Crowley climbed quicker, not wanting to be shut in here. 

Newt's head reappeared. 

The rung beneath Crowley's foot gave. She dropped, hands tightening and her weight jerking through her arms as she swung, body battered by the still flying books. The toes of her boots slipped on the wall as she scrambled to get to the next rung. 

Newt got his torso back in the tunnel. His hands grabbed her wrists. Crowley continued to kick at the wall, using the leverage to push herself up as Newt pulled. 

They crawled out of the tunnel. Sprawling on the dusty wood of the bookshop floor. Newt slammed the trap door closed. Throwing himself across it for good measure. 

Crowley flopped on her back. Her trousers were ripped, the skin beneath stinging with tiny, shallow cuts. She sat up to inspect the damage. 

As she pulled back the material she found another patch of flaky skin on her ankle. Small, shining scales pressing through beneath. 

Newt groaned. 

Crowley pulled down her trouser leg and replaced her glasses as she twisted to look at him. 

His own glasses were crooked and there was a nasty cut on his cheek. "You OK?" 

"Thank you." Crowley murmured. The words didn’t stick in her throat.

"Course." Newt pushed himself up. "Couldn't let anything happen to you. You've not signed the waiver yet."

His mouth twisted as he tried to keep his face neutral. Crowley gave into her own laugh. She tipped back and cackled. "You know I have even less incentive to sign it now, right?" 

Newt shrugged, pinched his eyes as his own laugh spluttered free. 

It felt good. Laughing with someone. 


End file.
